« EdellinenJatka »
And praise his gentle soule, and wish it well, But else, look how their virtue was their owne, And of his friendly facts full often tell.
Not capable of propagation. His father dead! tush, no it was not he,
Right so their titles beene, nor can be thine, He finds records of his great pedigree,
Whose ill deserts might blanke their golden line. And tells how first his famous ancestour
Tell me, thou gentle Trojan, dost thou prize Did come in long since with the Conquerour. Thy brute beasts' worth by their dams' qualities? Nor bath some bribed herald first assign'd Say'st thou this colt shall prove a swift-pac'd steed His quartered arms and crest of gentle kind; Only because a jennet did him breed The Scottish barnacle, if I might choose,
Or say'st thou this same borse shall win the prize, That of a worme doth waxe a winged goose ;
Because bis dam was swiftest Trunchefice, Nathlesse some hungry squire for, hope of good
Or Runcevall his sire? himself a Gallaway? Matches the churl's sonne into gentle blood,
Whiles like a tireling jade he lags half-way. Whose sonne more justly of his gentry boasts Or whiles thou seest some of thy stallion race, Than who were borne at two py'd painted posts, Their eyes bor'd out, masking the miller's maze, And had some traunting merchant to his sire, Like to a Scythian slave sworne to the payle, That trafick'd both by water and by fire.
Or dragging frothy barrels at his tayle?
Wont in the want of reason and of sense,
Unto their cause, or place where they were sowne;
That one is like to all, and all like one.
Was never fox but wily cubs begets;
The bear his fiercenesse to his brood besets:
Nor fearful hare falls out of lyon's seed, What boots it, Pontice, though thou could'st discourse Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed, Of a long golden line of ancestours ?
Creet ever wont the cypress sad to bear, Or show their painted faces gayly drest,
Acheron banks the palish popelar: From ever since before the last conquest ?
The palm doth rifely rise in Jury field,
And Alpheus waters nought but olives wild.
An English wolfe, an Irish toad to see,
Were as a chaste man nursd in Italy.
Above instinct, his reason and discourse,
His faults befal his sonnes by course of kind.
But not his pared nayle will he forego.
Florian, the sire, did women love alive, In some deep cock-pit, or in desp'rate lot
And so his sonne doth too, all but his wife. Upon a six-square piece of ivory,
Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own: Throw both thy self and thy posterity?
Brag of his lands if they are not foregone. Or if (O shame!) in hired harlot's bed
Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine Thy wealthy heirdome thou have buried :
More than his life, or lands, or golden line.
Plus beaque fort.
Can I not touch some upstart carpet-shield
Or Lolio's sonne, that never saw the field; Laughs at such danger and adventurement,
Or taxe wild Pontice for his luxuries, When half bis lands are spent in golden smoke,
But straight they tell me of Tiresias' eyes? And now his second hopeful glasse is broke.
Or lucklesse Collingborn's feeding of the crowes, But yet if hap'ly his third fornace hold,
Or hundreth scalps which Thames still overflowes, Devoteth all his pots and pans to gold:
But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes, So spend thou, Pontice, if thou canst not spare,
And winkes and waftes his warning hand for feare, Like some stout seaman, or phylosopher.
And lisp some silent letters in my eare?
That no salt wave shall froth upon my backe.
Let Labeo, or who else list for me,
Wars, God forefend! nay God defend from war; Go loose his ears and fall to alchimy:
Soone are sonnes spent, that not soon reared are. Only let Gallio give me leave a while
Gallio may pull me roses ere they fall, To schoole him once or ere I change my style. Or in his net entrap the tennis-ball, O lawlesse paunch! the cause of much despight, Or tend his spar-hawke mantling in her mev, Through raunging of a currish appetite,
Or yelping beagles busy heeles pursue, When spleenish morsels cram the gaping maw, Or watch a sinking corke upon the shore, Withouten diet's care or trencher-law;
Or halter finches through a privy doore, Though never have I Salerne rhymes profest Or list he spend the time in sportful game, To be some lady's trencher-critick guest;
In daily courting of his lovely dame, Whiles each bit cooleth for the oracle,
Hang on her lips, melt in her wanton eye,
Here's little perill, and inuch lesser paine,
Hye, wanton Gallio, and wed betime,
Why should'st thou leese the pleasures of thy prime? And warn him not to cast his wanton eyne
Seest thou the rose-leaves fall ungathered? On grosser bacon, or salt haberdine,
Then hye thee, wanton Gallio, to wed. Or dried ditches of some smoked beeve,
Let ring and ferule meet upon thine hand, Hang'd on a writhen wythe since Martin's eve, And Lucine's girdle with her swathing-band. Or burnt larke's heeles, or rashers raw and greene, Hye thee, and give the world yet one dwarfe more, Or melancholick liver of an hen,
Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore: Which stout Vorano brags to make his feast, Looke not for warning of thy bloomed chin, And claps his hand on his brave ostridge breast; Can ever happinesse too soone begin? Then falls to praise the hardy janizar
Virginius vow'd to keep his maidenhead, That sucks his horse side, thirsting in the war. And eats chast lettice, and drinks poppy-seed, Lastly, to seal up all that he hath spoke,
And smells on camphire fasting; and that done, Quaffes a whole tunnell of tobacco smoke.
Long hath he liv'd, chaste as a vailed nunne; If Martius in boist'rous buffs be dress’d,
Free as a new-absolved damosell Branded with iron plates upon the breast,
That frier Cornelius shrived in bis cell, And pointed on the shoulders for the noncé, Till now he wax'd a toothlesse bachelour, As new come from the Belgian garrisons,
He thaws like Chaucer's frosty Januere, What should thou need to envy ought at that, And sets a month's mind upon smiling May, Whenas thou smellest like a civet cat?
And dyes his beard that did his age bewray; Whena's thine oyled locks smooth platted fall, Biting on annys-seede and rosemarine, Shining like varnish'd pictures on a wall.
Which might the fume of his rot lungs refine : When a plum'd fanne may shade thy chalked face, Now he in Charon's barge a bride doth seeke, And lawny strips thy naked bosom grace.
The maidens mocke, and call him withered leeke, If brabbling Make-fray, at each fair and size, That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head, Picks quarrels for to show his valiantize,
And now he would, and now he cannot wed.
Stupet albius ære.
For which he need not brawl at any bar, In blowing bubbles from an empty shell;
Nor kisse the booke to be a perjurer; Oh, Hercules ! how like to prove a man,
Who else would scorne his silence to have sold, That all so rath thy warlike life began?
And have his tongue tyed with strings of gold? Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set
Curius is dead, and buried 'ong since, Her husband's rusty iron corselet;
And all that loved golden abstinence. Whose jargling sound might rock her babe to rest, Might he not well repine at his old fee, That never plaind of his uneasy nest :
Would he but spare to speake of usury? There did he dreame of dreary wars at hand, Hirelings enow beside can be so base, And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand. Though we should scorne each bribing varlet's brasse: But who hath seene the lambs of Tarentine, Yet he and I could shun each jealous head, May guesse what Gallio his manners beene; Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead. All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Though were they manicled behind our backe, Soft as the fuiny ball, or Morrian's crowne. Another's fist can serve our fees to take. Now Gallio, gins thy youthly heat to raigne Yet pursy Euclio cheerly smiling pray'd In every vigorous limb and swelling vaine ; [high, That my sharp words might curtail their side trade: Time bids thee raise thine headstrong thoughts on For thousands beene in every governall To valour and adventrous chivalry:
That live by losse, and rise by others fall. Pawne thou no glose for challenge of the deed, Whatever sickly sheepe so secret dies, Nor make thy quintaine others armed head But some foule raven hath bespoke his eyes? T enrich the waiting herald with thy shaine, What else makes N--- when his lands are spent, And make thy losse the scornful scaffold's game. Go shaking like a threadbare malecontent,
Whose bandlesse bonnet vailes his o'ergrown chin, When it shall grind thy grating gall for shame, And sullen rags bewray his morphew'd skin : To see the lands that beare thy grandsire's name So ships be to the wolfish western isle
Become a dunghill peasant's summer-hall, Among the savage kernes in sad exile;
Or lonely hermit's cage inhospitall; Or in the Tarkish wars at Cæsar's pay
A pining gourmand, an imperious slave, To rub bis life out till the latest day.
An horse-leech, barren wombe, and gaping grave; Another shifting gallant to forecast
A legal thiefe, a bloodlesse murtherer,
A fiend incarnate, a false usurer:
In the clay walls of thatched tenement.
For Easter gloves, or for a shrove-tide hen,
Which bought to give, he takes to sell again. By bushels was he wont to mete his coine,
I do not meane some glozing merchant's feate, As did the olde wife of Trimalcion.
That laugheth at the cozened world's deceit, Could he do more that finds an idle roome When as an hundred stocks lie in his fist, For many hundreth thousands on a tombe ? He leaks and sinks, and breaketh when he list. Or who rears up four free-schooles in his age But Nummius eas'd the needy gallant's care Of his old pillage, and damn'd surplusage ? With a base bargain of his blowen ware Yet now he swore by that sweete crosse he kissd Of fusted hops, now lost for lack of sale, (That silver crosse, where he had sacrific'd Or mould brown paper that could nought availe; His coveting soule, by his desire's owne doome, Or what he cannot utter otherwise, Daily to die the Devil's martyrdome)
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price; His angels were all fowne up to their sky, Whiles his false broker lieth in the wind, And had forsooke his naked treasury.
And for a present chapman is assign'd, Parewell Astrea, and her weights of gold,
T'he cut-throat wretch for their compacted gaine Untill his lingring calends once be told;
Buys all but for one quarter of the mayne; Nought left behind but wax and parchment scroles, Whiles if he chance to breake his deare-bought day Like Lucian's dreame that silver turn'd to coals. And forfeit, for default of due repay, Should'st thou him credit that nould credit thee? His late entangled lands; then, Fridoline, Yes, and may'st sweare he swore the verity. Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pine. The ding-thrift heir his shift-got summe mispent,
If Mammon's selfe sbould ever live with men, Comes drooping like a penlesse penitent,
Mammon himself shall be a citizen.
Quid placet ergo?
That men or know, or like not their estate: While his pale face doth say bis cause is nought. Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morne, Seest thou the wary angler trayle along
Not one but holds his native state forlorne. His feeble line, soone as some pike too strong When comely striplings wish it were their chance, Hath swallowed the baite that scornes the shore,
For Cænis' distaffe to enchange their lance, Yet now near-hand cannot resist no more?
And weare curl'd perriwigs, and chalk their face, So lieth h9 aloofe in smooth pretence,
And still are poring on their pocket-glasse. To hide his rough intended violence;
Tyr'd with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet strips, As he that under name of Christmas cheere And busks and verdingales about their hips; Can starve his tenants all th' ensuing yeare.
And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace, Paper and wax, (God' wot!) a weake repay
And make their napkin for their spitting place, For such deepe debts and downcast sums as they: And gripe their waist within a narrow span : Write, seale, deliver, take, go spend and speede, Fond Cæniş, that would'st wish to be a man! And yet full hardly could his present need
Whose manish housewives like their refuse state, Part with such sum; for but as yester-late
And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easy rate,
Who like a cot-queene freezeth at the rock, For small disbursment; he the bankes hath broke, Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forren stock. And needs mote now some further playne o'erlook; Is 'l not a shame to see each homely groome Yet ere he go faine would he be releast,
Sit perched in an idle chariot roome, Hye ye, ye ravens, hye you to the feast.
That were not meete some pannel to bestride, Provided that thy lands are left entire,
Sursingled to a galled hackney's hide? To be redeem'd or ere thy day expire:
Each muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine, Then shalt thou teare those idle paper bonds Although hesmother up mowes of seven years graine, That thus had fettered thy pawned lands.
And hang'd himself when corne grows cheap again; Ah, foole! for sooner shalt thou sell the rest Although he buy whole harvests in the spring, Than stake ought for thy former interest ;
And foyst in false strikes to the measuring:
Although his shop be muffled from the light Certes not all the world such matter wist
That Cæsar's throne is turn'd to Peter's chayre.
low Nor list he now go whistling to the carre,
To kisse the precious case of his proud toe;
Turn’d to the honour of our Lady's name,
The crooked staffe, their coule's strange form and Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent,
store, If he can live to see his name in print;
Save that he saw the same in Hell before; Who when he is once feshed to the presse, To see the broken nuns, with new-shorne heads, And sees his handsell have such faire successe, In a blind cloyster tosse their idle beades, Sung to the wheele, and sung unto the payle, Or louzy coules come smoking from the stewes, He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sale. To raise the lewd rent to their lord accrewes, Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodg'd chymes, (Who with ranke Venice doth his pompe advance To have his name talk'd of in future times. By trading of ten thousand courtezans) The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled eare Yet backward must absolve a female's sinne, With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false traveller, Like to a false dissembling Theatine, Which hath the Spanish decadés read awhile, Who when his skin is red with shirts of male Or whet-stone leasings of old Mandeville ; And rugged baire-cloth scoures his greasy nayle; Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe, Or wedding garment tames his stubborne backe, Of his adventures through the Indian deepe, Which his hempe girdle dies all blew and blacke. Of all their massy beapes of golden mine, Or of his almes-boule three dayes sapp'd and din'd, Or of the antique toombes of Palestine;
Trudges to open stewes of either kinde: Or of Damascus magick wall of glasse,
Or takes some cardinal's stable in tbe way, Of Solomon his sweating piles of brasse,
And with some pampered mule doth weare the day, Of the bird Ruc that bears an elephant,
Kept for his lord's own saddle when him liste Of mermaids that the southerne seas do haunt; Come, Valentine, and play the satyrist, Of headlesse men of savage cannibals,
To see poor sucklings welcom’d to the light The fashions of their lives and governals:
With searing irons of some soure Jacobite, What monstrous eities there erected be,
Or golden offers of an aged foole, Cayro, or the city of the Trinity.
To make his coffin some Franciscan's coule; Now are they dung-hill cocks that have not seene To see the pope's blacke knigbt, a cloaked frere, The bordering Alpes, or else the neighbour Rhine: Sweating in the channel like a scavengere. And now he plies the newes-full grashopper, Whom erst thy bowed hamme did lowly greete, Of voyages and ventures to inquire.
When at the corner-crosse thou didst him meete, 'His land mortgag'd, he, sea-beat in the way, Tumbling his rosaries hanging at his belt, Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day.
Or his baretta, or his towred felt:
Armed against a devout flye's despigbt, Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, Which at th' high altar doth the chalice vaile Ob, let me lead an academick life;
With a broad flie-flappe of a peacocke's tayle,
Would he not laugh to death when he should beare
St. George, the Sleepers, or St. Peter's well,
Or of his daughter good St. Petronell?
But had he heard the female father's groane,
Yeaning in mids of her procession; Who says these Romish pageants been too high Or now should see the needlesse tryal-chayre, To be the scorne of sportful poesy ?
(When each is proved by his bastard heyre)
Or saw the churches, and new calendere
For when the fall state in his fist doth lie,
His rent in fair respondence must arise
A whole inch thick, shining like black-moor's brows,
Through smoke that down the headlesse barrel blows.
A starved tenement, such as I guesse
Stands straggling in the wastes of Holdernesse;
Or such as shiver on a peake hill side,
When March's lungs beate on their turf-clad hide ;
Such as nice Lipsius would grudge to see Pardon, ye glowing eares; needs will it out, Above his lodging in wild Westphalye; Though brazen walls compass’d my tongue about Or as the Saxon king bis court might make, As thick as wealthy Scrobio's quick-set rowes When his sides playned of the neat-heard's cake. In the wide common that he did enclose.
Yet must he haunt his greedy landlord's hall Pull out mine eyes, if I shall see no vice,
With often presents at each festivall: Or let me see it with detesting eyes.
With cramnied capons every new-yeare's morne, Renowned Aquine, now I follow thee,
Or with green cheeses when his sheep are shorne: Far as I may for feare of jeopardy;
Or many maunds full of his mellow fruite, And to thy hand yield up the ivy-mace
To make some way to win his weighty suite. From crabbed Persius, and more smooth Horace; Whom cannot gifts at last cause to relent, Or from tbat shrew the Roman poetesse,
Or to win favour, or fee punishment? That taught her gossips learned bitternesse; When griple patrons turn their sturdie steele Or Lucile's Muse whom thou didst imitate, To waxe, when they the golden flame do feele: Or Menips old, or Pasquillers of late.
When grand Mæcenas casts a glavering eye Yet name I not Mutius, or Tigillipe,
On the cold present of a puesy: Though they deserve a keener style than mine; And lest he might more frankly take than give, Nor meane to ransack up the quiet grave;
Gropes for a French crowne in his empty sleeve. Nor barn dead bones, as he example gave : Thence Clodius hopes to set his shoulders free I taxe the living: let the dead ashes rest,
From the light burden of his napery.
And leers like Æsop's foxe upon a crane
What recks he then of paines or promise past?
Within the cold Coal-harbour sanctuary? Who knows a monk had been a mendicant? Will one from Scots-bank bid but one groate While freezing Matho, that for one lean fee
more, Won't term each term the term of Hilary, My old tenant may be turned out of doore, May now instead of those his simple fees,
Though much he spent in th' rotten roof's repaire, Get the fee-simples of faire manneries.
In hope to have it left unto his heir:
Were he as Furius, he would defy
And lay their roofe quite level with their floore, Or hath he wonne some wider interest,
Whiles yet he gives as to a yielding fence, By boary charters from his grandsire's chest, Their bag and baggage to his citizens, Which late some bribed scribe for slender wage, And ships them to the new-nam'd virgin-lond, Writ in the characters of another age,
Or wilder Wales where never wight yet wonn'd. That Plowdon selfe might stammer to rehearse, Would it not vex thee where thy sires did keep, Whose date d'erlooks three centuries of years. To see the dunged folds of dag-tayld sheep? Who ever yet tbe tracks of weale so try'd,
And ruin'd house where holy tbings were said, But there hath been one beaten way beside? Whose free-stone walls the thatched roofe upbraid, He, when he lets a lease for life, or yeares, Whose shrill saint's-bell hangs on his lovery, (As never be doth until the date expires ;
While the rest are damned to the plumbery?